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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25784938">Homecoming</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/EAU1636/pseuds/EAU1636'>EAU1636</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Endeavour (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s01e04 Home, F/M, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mentions of hunting, Parent Death, Snowball Fight, Soup</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:16:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,153</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25784938</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/EAU1636/pseuds/EAU1636</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A semi-canon retelling of Home with some gaps filled in, the edges softened up and some found family fluff in the second chapter.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cyril Morse &amp; Endeavour Morse, Endeavour Morse &amp; Fred Thursday, Endeavour Morse &amp; Jim Strange, Endeavour Morse &amp; Joyce Morse, Endeavour Morse &amp; Win Thursday, Fred Thursday/Win Thursday</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>62</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Well, I set out to write a fluffy ending for Home and ended up writing a full chapter of angst before getting to the fluff.  So, this chapter is admittedly angsty and sad, but the fluff is coming very soon in chapter two.  </p><p>This weaves in and out of the episode a fair bit, I hope it isn't too hard to follow.  Apologies if it is.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Friday</em>
</p><p>
  <em>January 21st, 1966</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Morse’s thoughts tumble over one another as he drives along the High Street.  Jakes’ wandering hands at the Moonlight Room last night, the way his jacket held the faint scent of Joan’s perfume after walking her home, Thursday slamming that blood red wreath across the table with an ultimatum of shattered glass, his father’s strained silences and Gwen’s withering looks, the sergeant’s exam looming before him tomorrow, and the murders of Dr. Coke Norris and Georgina Bannard still unsolved; all of it swirling dizzyingly around in his mind, the images and memories of the past few days filling the car, more real than the world passing by outside.</p><p>No wonder then, that he doesn’t recognize the figure at first; a woman, arms laden with shopping bags, walking along the snowy pavement a bit ahead of him.  </p><p> </p><p>The cold stings Win’s cheeks, her arms growing sore beneath the weight of groaning shopping bags. She senses, rather than sees, the car pulling up alongside her.  For a moment her whole body tenses, her heart pounding.  And then she recognizes the familiar black Jaguar.</p><p>“Hello,” Morse calls from the driver’s seat.  </p><p>“Oh hello, Morse.” She tries not to let the relief show in her voice. “Fred not with you?”</p><p>“Just dropped him at the station.  On my way to London.”</p><p>“I see.”</p><p>“Can I give you a lift?”</p><p>“I don’t want to trouble you.”</p><p>“No trouble at all.  It’d be my pleasure.”  </p><p>He puts the car in park and gets out to open the door for her.  Once the bags are all safely stowed, she settles into the passenger seat.  He closes her door and then comes back around and gets in, turning to give her a shy smile.  </p><p>“Home?”  He asks.</p><p>She waits a beat before answering.  She should, of course, just have him drop her at home.  She shouldn’t interfere.  But there are things a wife, a mother, is entitled to know.  Especially when it comes to keeping her family safe.</p><p>“Would you have time for a drink first?  I’d like a quick chat, if you’ve the time.”</p><p>She catches the momentary surprise on his face, but he’s nothing if not polite.</p><p>“Of course,” he says with a quick nod of the head.</p><p> </p><p>They find a table at a pub and Morse goes to fetch their drinks. </p><p>He returns with a pint for himself and a sherry for her and takes a seat across the table. He looks over and gives a nervous smile.</p><p>“I’m sorry to keep you from work,” she says.</p><p>He shakes his head and gives a half grin, but she can see he doesn’t really feel at ease, all fidgeting fingers and downcast eyes.</p><p>“It’s just that Fred... well, you know he tries very hard not to bring work home with him. And most of the time that’s for the best, for all of us.  But lately I’m worried.  When we came to Oxford I thought we left all this sort of thing behind.  And now here it is, dredged up again and left right on our doorstep, if Joan or Sam had seen it...” Her voice breaks.</p><p>His face creases in concern.</p><p>“The wreath?” He asks, more answer than question.</p><p>She nods.  “The box came yesterday.  No note.  And then when I opened it--” She takes a breath to try to steady herself. “That awful thing was inside.”</p><p>His eyes flash with anger, his jaw tensing.  </p><p>“It must be to do with all that business again, what happened with Mickey Carter,” she continues.  “Kasper and his lot.  I thought it was all over, done with.  But they left <em>that </em>at our home.  Fred said he would see to it, that I needn’t worry, but how can I not?  I can’t stop looking over my shoulder. Worrying everytime Joan or Sam step foot out of the house.  And every time he leaves, I wonder...”  </p><p>Tears well in her eyes and she fights to hold them back.</p><p>“It will be alright.” His voice holds a reassuring determination.  “No harm is going to come to your family, to any of you.”</p><p>She looks over at him, grateful just to be able to speak her fears aloud. He's so young, still so earnest.  Just a boy really, not much older than Joan.  She hates to put this burden on his shoulders.</p><p>“Will you tell me what happened with Carter?” He asks, tentatively.  “I wouldn’t ask, I hate to bring it all back, but I can’t see how things fit together, unless I know.”</p><p>She nods.  “Fred wouldn’t tell you, I suppose.  It’s hard for him to talk about, even now.  It nearly broke him back then.  He’d taken Carter under his wing, you see, from a young constable.  Saw something in him, the way he does with you.  But that night Mickey went on his own to meet an informant.  Fred didn’t know, until after.  A beating that went too far.  Fred blamed himself, though it wasn’t his fault of course.  But he felt responsible for the young man.  Things got bad.  He would have stayed, to see things put right.  But Joan and Sam were still small, he had to think of our family, of keeping us safe.  And so we left.  Came here to Oxford. But it isn’t so easy to leave something like that behind.”</p><p>“No,” Morse says, and the understanding in his voice makes her wonder.</p><p>“I just... I needed to know that he isn’t playing a lone hand.  He’d do anything to keep us safe, you see.”  </p><p>Morse nods.  “You needn’t worry. Really.  It will all come out right. He isn’t alone.”</p><p>She smiles.  </p><p>“Anyway, enough about all of that for now,” she says.  “How are things with you?  Fred mentioned your father had been poorly?”</p><p>“It was just a turn.  Heart trouble.  He seems alright now.”</p><p>“I’m glad to hear it.  I’m sure he appreciated your visit.  He must be so proud of you.”</p><p>Morse looks down at the table, runs his thumb along the side of his glass, and gives a sad, uncomfortable little laugh.  </p><p>She feels a tug on her heart.  Complicated, maybe, things with his family.</p><p>“It isn’t always easy, between fathers and sons.  So much seems to go unsaid.  But any parent would be proud to have a son like you. I know I would be.”</p><p>His cheeks flush, but his shoulders seem to relax a little.</p><p>“I’m sure it did your mother good to see you,” she says with a smile.</p><p>The change in him is immediate.  He freezes, rather like a deer in headlights, then gives a nearly imperceptible shake of his head.  </p><p>“She died,” he says, almost as if apologising. “When I was twelve.  There’s my stepmother, but we don’t really... well, we were never what you’d call close.”</p><p>“I’m so sorry,” she says softly.</p><p>He shrugs.  “Long time ago now.”</p><p>But Win knows well enough that there are some wounds time hides rather than heals. </p><p>“Well, I shouldn’t keep you,” she says, finishing off the last of her drink. “Thank you, for listening, and for looking out for Fred. He thinks the world of you, you know.”</p><p>Morse reddens, his face brightening with a stilted smile.  “It really will be alright.”</p><p>Win nods, the weight of more than just her shopping bags lifted by this chance meeting.</p><p> </p><p>Morse drops Mrs. Thursday at home and heads to the Coke Norris’s flat in London, thinking over this new insight into Thursday’s past.  Earlier today he’d half thought of calling Carter’s widow to get information, dreadful as that would be.  Now at least he knows what it is he’s dealing with, what Thursday is so afraid of.  </p><p> </p><p>That night, after Bright makes his position on their inquiries into the master at Baidley College all too clear, Morse and Thursday grab a drink and look over the dossier of papers on Booth Hill.  </p><p>Late nights like this, it’s usually Morse on his own at the station or his flat, trying to put the pieces together, doggedly chasing even those leads he’s been warned off of. He can’t help but feel a bit glad to have company this time, in Thursday being just as determined as he is to suss out the truth, whatever Bright says. But he can’t help worrying how far Thursday will go to pin these murders on Kasper, to try to right old wrongs.</p><p>“My Joan say what she was doing at the Moonlight the other night?” Thursday asks, apropos of nothing.</p><p>Morse is caught off guard.  He hates to lie, especially to Thursday, but he promised Joan.</p><p>“Works night out. Girls from the bank,” he answers, trying to sound nonchalant and feeling a bit sick.</p><p>“How come you were there?”</p><p>“I was working on the case. Looking for Georgina Bannard.”</p><p>“After I’d told you to steer clear?”</p><p>Frustration, hot and itching, prickles Morse’s skin.  This again, as though he were some child in need of protection.  As if he didn’t know perfectly well how to look out for himself.</p><p>“Look, I don’t need protecting, sir.”</p><p>“Don’t you?” Thursday retorts.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Thursday looks over at him as though he couldn’t believe it less.</p><p>It’s the unfairness of it, the feeling he’s a school boy being unjustly scolded, that drives him to say it, though he knows he shouldn’t.</p><p>“I won’t end up like Mickey Carter.” </p><p>“What would you know about it?”  Thursday asks, sounding more worn down than angry.</p><p>“I heard about it, that’s all.”</p><p>“From who?”</p><p>“Does it matter?” Morse asks, the acerbity masking his need to shield Win’s confidences.</p><p>“Going behind my back.”  There’s no mistaking the anger in Thursday’s voice now.</p><p>“No, sir, doing my job.”</p><p>“Your job’s what I say it is.  You’d no business.”  </p><p>Morse can hear the betrayal, and half regrets saying anything.  But better to get it out in the open.  He hasn’t done anything wrong.</p><p>“If it has a bearing on the case, then it is my business...  You weren’t gonna tell me.”</p><p>He sees Thursday relent a bit, the fire put out with a sigh.</p><p>“Was it Vic Kasper?” Morse asks.</p><p>“Couldn’t prove it.”  The resignation in Thursday’s voice bristles.</p><p>“Investigations started turning up Mickey had been on the take.  He hadn’t, of course, it was a fit-up.  But the brass didn’t want to know.  They brushed it under the carpet.” </p><p>“You wouldn’t let that go?” The question is almost a plea.  Morse feels a dull confusion churning inside him.  Because Thursday, the man he knows—or thought he knew, would never let such a thing go.</p><p>“Oh I let it go all right.  To my shame.  I walked away and let them bury Mickey Carter’s good name along with his body.”</p><p>Thursday takes a drink.  Morse tries to come to terms with what he’s heard, to let his eyes adjust to the dimmer light he’s seeing his mentor in now, in which it’s almost hard to recognize him.</p><p>“They come at you through what you care about,” Thursday says, the flat tone of his voice unable to cover the anguish of emotion beneath it.</p><p>And Morse understands that these threats against the Thursday family aren’t new. This is a road well trodden before, the one that led the family here.</p><p>“That’s why you moved to Oxford?”</p><p>“More or less. But this is where it stops.”  </p><p>Thursday sets his glass down on the table, a line in the sand.</p><p>Morse is quiet, mulling it all over.  He feels somehow that he owes Thursday for this admission, the past that Thursday had tried to keep buried from him, dug up and lying between them now like an open grave.</p><p>One good turn, he supposes, though it’s more like one dark memory...</p><p>He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about Thursday asking about his range results. Unsure, even now, of why the evasion sprang so quickly to his lips. </p><p>His mind goes back to that cold, grey winter.  </p><p>“You were right. It wasn’t the army.  Where I learnt to shoot.  When I was twelve...”</p><p>More than half a life ago, and his mouth can still barely form the words.</p><p>“Uh... the first Christmas... after my mother...”  </p><p>He’d been with them half a year by then, but it still hadn’t felt like home. He hadn’t realized, yet, that with her gone nowhere would ever really feel like home again. </p><p> “My father bought me a pistol.”</p><p>He remembers that Christmas morning with such cruel clarity.  The disappointment hardening on his father’s face when he’d seen Endeavour’s reaction opening the gift.  He had been a little afraid even to touch the pistol.  There weren’t bullets in it yet, but it was loaded just the same, the epitome of everything his mother stood against, and the antithesis of what he most wanted.  Cold steel instead of warmth or love.  The gift was an expectation, and a promise.  </p><p>“He used to take me out on the common after rabbits.  Make a man.”</p><p>Kind-hearted, his mother had called him, as though it were a virtue.  But his father had only ever seen him as weak.  Killing a defenseless animal was no more in his nature than breathing underwater.  But choice had never entered into it.  The first time he’d hit one, the bullet had only grazed.  The misery of that poor creature had been enough to make him weep.  And so he’d learned soon enough to aim with precision, to bring about the act with as little suffering as possible.  But it never stopped twisting his insides, long after he learned not to cry.  </p><p>Something in the way Thursday had asked him where he’d learned to shoot, in the way this skill had impressed him, had reminded him of his father.  <em>My crackshot son</em>, his father used to say, in his better moods.  Morse still shuddered when he thought of those rabbits.  And it was still the only thing he’d ever done that had made his father proud.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>Saturday</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Your Joan was down here the other night, with that copper.”</p><p>Thursday’s first inclination, when Vince says it, is to think he’s lying.  Just trying to get his blood up.  But it had been odd, Joan being there, and Morse just happening to be there as well.</p><p>“What copper?”  He knows he’s taken the bait, but he’s unable to just leave it.</p><p>“That boy of yours.  Made a nice couple, I thought.”</p><p>And, of course, there’s only one copper anyone would refer to as his boy.  The description hits closer to home than he’d like.</p><p>“You what?”  Thursday walks toward him, “You talkin’ about Morse?”</p><p>“It must weigh on a father, that kind of responsibility.  She’s a good looking girl.  It’d be a tragedy...”  He lets the insinuation hang in the air between them. “But you can’t be there to watch them all the time.”</p><p>And now Thursday’s well and truly let the little prick get his hook into him, and Vince knows it.</p><p>“Those papers you’ve got on Booth Hill, I want them today,” Vince walks towards him, bold as brass.  </p><p>“That’s how things are gonna go from here on, Fred.”  Vince pats him on the arm, condescension oiling his voice. “You’d better get used to it.”</p><p> </p><p>Thursday wrestles with it, on the drive to the station, and then sitting at his desk waiting for Morse to get back from talking with Dr. Kern.  He’d never have pegged Morse for the type to go out with Joan on the sly, wouldn’t have believed it before now, but hadn’t the boy just gone behind his back to get information on Carter?  He’s angry, there’s no denying it. Not that Morse would take Joan out, but that he’d do it this way, breaking the trust that's built up between them.</p><p>There are bigger fish now, at any rate.  If Morse really does care for Joan, maybe it’s a blessing in disguise.  Should he clue Morse in to his predicament? Crowd the boy in beside him in this suffocating space between a rock and a hard place?  It’s hard to tell with Morse.  </p><p>The lad doesn’t give a toss about what higher-ups might think, too relentless about following his own moral compass.  But what about when the only route to righting things requires a few wrong turns?  Fred could give him the dossier, for safekeeping, and let him know what’s at stake.</p><p> </p><p>He’s made his mind up when Morse walks into the station, halfway up from his seat by the time Morse is halfway across the room.  He walks toward Morse, the dossier gripped in his hands.</p><p>“I want a word with you, in private.”</p><p>Morse looks at him, a question in his eyes.</p><p>And then the phone rings.</p><p>“Morse’s sister,” Strange says, and the room seems to still in sympathetic anticipation.</p><p>Morse walks over to the phone. </p><p>“Joycie?” He asks into the receiver.</p><p>Morse’s anxiety and discomfort are so palpable Fred’s own mouth tastes of cotton wool.</p><p>“Calm down.  I’ll be there as soon as I can.” </p><p> </p><p>Thursday drives Morse to his flat to pack a bag, and makes up his mind.  He’ll leave him the dossier, in case.  But he won’t say anything.  The boy has enough on his mind already.  It’s better this way, facing it alone, no chance of anyone else getting hurt, no chance of anyone trying to stop him from doing what he has to do.</p><p>“What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”  Morse says, leaning out the window as the train begins to pull away.</p><p>“It’ll keep.”  </p><p>But will it?  </p><p>“I know you went out with Joan the other night.  Be good to her.”  </p><p>He says it because he doesn’t know if he’ll get another chance.  Because he doesn’t want Morse to feel guilt over this secret if anything happens.  Because he wants to know there’ll be someone to look after his family, if he can’t.</p><p>The expression on Morse’s face is hard to read.</p><p>Thursday watches the train pull out of the station, taking Morse out of harm's way, the dossier slipped safely in his bag.</p><p>“Right,” Thursday says aloud. </p><p>Zero hour.  </p><p> </p><p>At the Moonlight Room Fred is too ablaze with determination to feel much fear.  A gun pointed at his head might normally give him pause, thinking of Win and the kids, but not now, not when it’s them he’s here to protect.  His chest is tight, not with anxiety, but restraint.  Because right now it’s taking everything he has not to pull that trigger.</p><p>But then he hears Morse over his shoulder, a stubborn, reckless angel to Fred’s vengeful demons.  He shouldn’t be surprised really, at the boy showing up, train out of town or no.  Morse can never just leave a thing alone, never seems to think before tangling himself in the thick of things.  And now the gun is pointed at Morse, it’s a very different feeling in Fred’s chest.  Vic’s already taken one bagman from him, Vince isn’t about to take another.  He can hardly focus on what Morse is saying, his attention pinpointed on the gun in Vince’s hand, his finger, poised and ready, on the trigger of his own.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Ironic then, that an hour later when they’re confronting Millicent Coke Norris in her sitting room, he doesn’t give a moment’s pause before leaving Morse with the woman while he searches out Dr. Kern in the library.  Mrs. Coke Norris almost fades into the furniture, so very easy to overlook.  She has a wooly, dithering quality that discounts her as a threat, even now that he knows she’s killed three people in cold blood.  </p><p>He leans over the body of Dr. Kern, knowing immediately that the man is already dead.  And then he registers the bullet wound in his back. </p><p><em>Morse</em>.</p><p>He’s on his feet and back outside the sitting room without another thought.  The gun raised automatically, no time to call out, the trigger pulled on instinct-- just a moment too late.</p><p>Time seems to stop briefly, his mind dull with reckoning, watching her body crumple, the gun smoking in his hand.</p><p>And then he turns to see Morse’s body on the floor.  For one terrible moment, Fred isn’t sure.  </p><p>“Morse?”  He calls out, his heart ripped from his chest.</p><p>And then Morse moves.  Fred rushes over.  Pain and panic run rampant in the younger man’s eyes.</p><p>“You’re alright,” Fred says soothingly, his hands still shaking as he locates the wound.</p><p>It isn’t too bad, considering.  He pulls the phone down from the table and does his best to apply pressure while calling for an ambulance.</p><p>“No!”  Morse argues.  “I can’t.  I have to go.  DeBryn?”</p><p>Fred’s about to argue, the lad’s got a bullet wedged in him, for Christ’s sake.</p><p>“Please,” Morse begs.</p><p>Fred sighs and dials DeBryn first.</p><p> </p><p>After Max has done his best to get Morse stitched up, very much against his better judgment as he’s made quite clear, he starts on the bandages.  The worst of it over, Fred slips into the library to call home.</p><p>“Hello?”  Win answers.</p><p>“Hello, love.”</p><p>“Fred?”  The worry in her voice is unmistakable.</p><p>“It’s alright.  Everything’s settled.  It’s over.  Nothing to worry about now.”</p><p>He hears her sigh.</p><p>“Oh Fred, are you sure you’re alright?”</p><p>“Yes.  Morse was injured though, in another incident.  Shot, but not seriously.”</p><p>“Oh!  Are you with him at the hospital?”</p><p>“Can’t get him to go to the hospital.  DeBryn’s seeing to him. His father’s in a bad way and he’s eager to get home.”</p><p>“That poor boy.  You’ll drive him?”</p><p>“Yes, I was planning on it, if it’s alright with you.”</p><p>“Of course.  You should stay the night there, Fred.  Get a room, you’ll be too exhausted to drive back tonight.  That way you can check in on him tomorrow.  It’s too much, first his father and now this.  I’m worried.”</p><p>“He’ll be alright.  I’ll stay over and check in on him, don’t you worry.”</p><p>“Be sure you take care of yourself too.  Drive safe and get some rest and I’ll see you tomorrow.”</p><p>“See you tomorrow, love.”</p><p>His chest aches with love for her, her selfless understanding and kindness, and her never failing common sense.  She is at once both so practical and so full of hope.  He already knows he won’t get much sleep tonight, without her beside him to soften the edges of this hellish day.</p><p> </p><p>Fred’s glad when Morse falls asleep just outside of Oxford.  A bit of rest will do the boy some good.  He wakes up just as they’re approaching Lincolnshire.  </p><p>Morse is quiet, aside from giving an occasional direction.  Fred can feel the dread and apprehension radiating from the lad now that they’re nearly there.  </p><p>“I think I’ll get a room for the night.  No sense in driving back at this hour.  Is there an inn nearby?”</p><p>“Yes. The King’s Head is just down the road.  I’m sorry to put you out, you needn’t have driven all this way. I could have taken the train.”</p><p>“I wasn’t putting you on a train in that state.  Besides, there wasn’t time.”</p><p>Morse nods.</p><p>“Give me a call in the morning.  Anytime.  I’ll come by before I head back.”</p><p>“Alright.”</p><p>Fred pulls up outside the house.</p><p>“Thanks,” Morse says, grabbing his bag with a wince of pain.</p><p>Fred nods.  “I’ll wait for your call in the morning.”</p><p>And then Morse is gone, limping towards the house.</p><p> </p><p>All the rush to get here, and now Endeavour can’t help feeling he’d rather be anywhere else. He walks into the bedroom, oppressive and expectant in its silence.  He stands at the foot of the bed, looking down at his father.  He feels numb, out of place.  What is it sons are supposed to feel at the bedsides of their dying fathers?  What is it he’s meant to do?</p><p>He makes his way across the room to the chair beside the bed, every step an agony.  He sits, trying to ignore the pain.  </p><p>He has never been good at this sort of thing.  Even policing hasn’t cured him of being ill at ease with grief, of dreading the sight of death.  He’s always on the outside, even in grieving, never following the proper etiquette, never feeling the expected emotion, discomforted rather than consoled by the well worn platitudes.  </p><p>“The doctor said we should talk to you,” he mumbles, as if making an excuse, knowing that if he were awake his father would be irritated rather than pleased by his son sitting and talking with him.</p><p>What is it he’s supposed to say? </p><p>If he’d had the chance with his mother, to say goodbye, to tell her the things he’d never had a chance to, all the time in the world wouldn’t have been enough.  </p><p>The only thing he can think to say to his father is <em>I’m sorry. I wanted things to be different.  I tried.  Did you ever think I was a good son, a good man?  Was I ever worth loving?</em></p><p>It isn’t knowing his father can’t respond that keeps him from asking the question aloud. It’s that he already knows the answer.</p><p>He’s never known how to be the son his father wanted, and even in this he would be a disappointment to him.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>Sunday</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Pale winter light filters through the window, waking Endeavour at dawn the next morning.  He stands, stiff and sore from the few hours sleep in the chair.  He walks over and puts his jacket over Joycie, still sleeping across the room.  The pain in his hip is relentless, he tries to stretch, to walk around in hopes the movement might help.  And then he looks over at the bed, at his father, still and silent.</p><p>There’s a last moment right before he realizes, and then it’s as though a hole has opened up in the world.  Somehow, despite everything, it still feels sudden.  He reaches over and puts his finger against his father’s wrist, the copper in him kicking in, the first time he’s touched him in years.  But his father is past touch now.  </p><p>Endeavour sits beside the bed, trying to keep hold of himself.  He’s an adult, a policeman, this is a situation he should be able to grasp, should be able to handle.  Except he can’t.  The years fall away and he’s twelve years old again, alone with a body that both is, and is no longer, his parent.  He’s filled with a sickening sort of disbelief, his mind unable to take it in.</p><p>There’s no sense in waking Joycie. He should let her sleep.  But being alone in this knowledge, alone with what’s left of his father, makes him wish he could run from the room.  And what if Gwen should come in?  What will he say to Gwen?  To Joycie? He dreads the moment of their knowing, of their looking to him for confirmation, the understanding passing unspoken between them like some dark currency of loss.</p><p>Joycie stirs and stretches.  His knowing, and watching her not yet knowing, is terrible beyond words.  And then she looks over at Endeavour, a smile just starting on her lips — until she sees his face.  </p><p>He can only shrug slightly, can barely even manage that.  Her eyes fill with tears.  She looks over at their father, a softness in her face, a love in her eyes that Endeavour can’t help but envy.  </p><p>He wipes the tears from his face with the back of his hand.  He walks to the end of the bed and Joycie moves towards him, wrapping her arms around him.  </p><p>She cries into his shoulder, and he cries too, not even sure what or who he’s crying for.  He holds tightly to his sister, so grateful for her, so grateful that this time he isn’t alone.   </p><p> </p><p>An hour later, Morse phones the King’s Head.</p><p>Thursday’s voice comes over the line, “Morse?”</p><p>For a moment Morse is afraid that he won’t be able to say anything, that he’ll burst into tears.</p><p>“Sir.”</p><p>“Your father?”</p><p>“He...”  But he can’t say it.</p><p>“It’s over,” he finally manages to say.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Thursday replies.</p><p>Morse just swallows.</p><p>“I’ll be by in half an hour,” Thursday says.</p><p>“You don’t need to.”</p><p>“If I leave without checking in on you there’s no point going back to Oxford, because Mrs. Thursday won’t let me back in the house.”</p><p>Morse laughs, a tear slipping down his cheek.</p><p>“Half an hour,” he agrees.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Thursday pulls up outside the house and parks.  He sees the front door open and gets out of the car, walking up towards the gate.  </p><p>It’s freezing, but Morse is in just his shirtsleeves. Fred’s struck by how young Morse looks, how broken he seems. God knows when he’ll get that wound properly cared for now.</p><p>Morse stands at the gate, clearly on the verge of tears but saying nothing.</p><p>Fred has the urge to put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, to hug him even.  But he doesn’t, of course.</p><p>“Anything you need?”  He asks.</p><p>Morse shakes his head.</p><p>“I’ll be back in a few days,” Morse says, emotion bubbling up beneath the cracks in his voice like water under a frozen lake.</p><p>And Fred just nods and walks back to the car. What else can he do?  </p><p>He leaves Morse standing there in the morning’s icy chill, watching him drive away. </p><p> </p><p>Later that morning Fred arrives home, his shoulders relaxing a bit as soon as he’s in the hall.  The smell of frying bacon greets him, and the sound of Win busying about in the kitchen.</p><p>As he hangs his hat and jacket up she comes down the hall to meet him.  God, she’s a welcome sight.  She rests her hands gently on his chest and looks up into his face.</p><p>“I’m glad you’re home.  How are you?  Did you get any sleep?”</p><p>“I’m fine,” he reassures her.</p><p>“I’ve got breakfast on.  I’ll bring you some tea.”</p><p>He nods and heads in to sit at the table.  </p><p>She brings in breakfast for both of them. It doesn’t escape his notice that she’s waited until he’s home to eat, so that they can have breakfast together.  </p><p>She fills him in on the household happenings of the last twenty four hours.  Joan is upstairs reading and Sam has gone to see a friend.  She waits until he’s done eating and then eyes him from across the table.</p><p>“Alright,” he says, “I know you want to ask.”</p><p>“How is he, Fred?”</p><p>“He’ll be alright, in time.”</p><p>“But how did he look this morning?  Really?”</p><p>There’s no use in pretending, Win always seems to know anyway.</p><p>“He looked as if the light had gone out in him,” Fred admits. “I hated to leave him there that way, but after all, he’s with his family.  It’s not my place.  They’ll look out for him.”</p><p>“Will they?”</p><p>Win crosses her arms.</p><p>“I spoke to Morse, Friday afternoon,” she says quietly.  “He drove by as I was walking home and offered a lift.  And I had a talk with him, about that awful wreath and what happened with Mickey.”</p><p>Fred’s about to speak when she raises her hand to cut him off.</p><p>“Now don’t go saying I shouldn’t have interfered.  I never pry when it comes to work.  But this was different and you know it.”</p><p>Fred sighs and nods.  So Morse hadn’t gone behind his back.  </p><p>“You know his mother died when he was a boy?”</p><p>Fred nods.</p><p>“And I don’t get the feeling he and his father saw eye to eye.”</p><p>“No,” Fred agrees.</p><p>“That boy needs looking after.”</p><p>“He’s a grown man, Win.”</p><p>“He’s scarcely older than Joan.  And he’s practically alone in the world now, and I’m guessing he still hasn’t had that injury properly seen to.”</p><p>She eyes him with a kind but steady determination.  He knows that look.  There’s no sense in arguing.</p><p>“Now, you call this evening and find out when the funeral is.  We’ll go.  It’ll do him good to have some friendly faces there.”</p><p>Fred knows an order when he hears one.  </p><p>“Alright,” he nods.</p><p>And though he’d never admit it aloud, the tight fist of guilt that had settled in his stomach begins to unclench.  When Win leaves the room to clear the breakfast dishes, he smiles.</p><p> </p><p>Early that evening, Fred dials the Morse family home, though something in him doubts Morse thinks of it as such.</p><p>“Hello?”  A woman’s clipped voice answers.</p><p>“Hello, my name is Fred Thursday, I work with Mo—” he starts to say, before catching himself, “With Endeavour.  Might I speak with him?”</p><p>“He isn’t here.”</p><p>“I see, well, I’m so sorry for your family’s loss.  I’m calling because I’d like to come to the funeral, pay my respects, if that’s alright?”</p><p>The voice on the other line gives a <em>hmmph</em>. “You can do as you like, I’m sure.  Endeavour would find a way to make the day about himself, I suppose.  Never mind that his father would hate to have his service crawling with police.  Cyril never could stand a copper.”</p><p>For a moment Fred can’t find words.  He’s certainly used to being unwelcome in his line of work, but he hadn’t anticipated such venom here.  Then he hears another voice, just barely loud enough to make out. </p><p>“Mother!  Let me talk to them.”</p><p>A younger, much warmer, girl’s voice comes on the line.</p><p>“I’m so sorry, my mother isn’t in her right mind with everything going on.  What was it you wanted?”</p><p>“Hello, miss.  I quite understand, a difficult time for everyone in the family.  I’m a colleague of Endeavour’s, and my wife and I were hoping to attend the funeral, unless it’s an imposition.”</p><p>“Of course it’s not.  How thoughtful of you.  I’m sure Endeavour will appreciate it,” she says. “He’s out getting some final details settled right now, but the service will be Tuesday at one o’clock at St. Wilfred’s.  We’d be glad to have you there.”</p><p>“We’ll see you then, miss.  Thank you.”</p><p>“See you then, goodbye.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>Tuesday</em>
</p><p> </p><p>After the funeral, Win and Fred hang back in the churchyard, letting the family exchange greetings and accept condolences from the handful of people in attendance. When the few other mourners have dispersed, Morse heads over towards them, wincing slightly with each step.</p><p>“Sir,” he nods to Fred in greeting.  </p><p>“Morse,” Fred nods back.</p><p>Win resists the urge to sigh. Even graveside, the two of them just nod, as if sorrow and worry weren’t tugging them towards one another like a tide.</p><p>Morse looks painfully pale and seems even more shy and awkward than usual, but Win catches the grateful look in his eyes, and knows they did the right thing in coming.</p><p>“Mrs. Thursday,” he says, turning to give her a nod.</p><p>“None of that now.  It’s Win,” she says, “I’m so sorry about your father.”</p><p>And she wraps him in a hug, as she would any friend or family member who’d just buried a loved one.</p><p>For a second he seems unsure how to respond, and she wonders if perhaps he isn’t the hugging sort.  But then he softens, almost clinging to her.  It reminds her of the way the children used to hug her, and still do occasionally, when they’re sick or afraid.  He’s so much thinner than Sam or Joan, all sharp corners.  </p><p>She thinks of Morse beside his father’s grave minutes before, head hanging down and hands gripped tightly behind his back, as if desperate for something to hold onto. She can’t help but imagine him as a young boy in front of his mother’s grave, and the thought breaks her heart.</p><p>After a long moment he drops his arms, stepping away and looking embarrassed.  </p><p>"You didn’t need to come all this way.  Just for this,” he says it more to the ground than them.  </p><p>“I’ll be back in Oxford tomorrow, but not until late.  I’m seeing a doctor near here in the afternoon, someone DeBryn recommended, well forced on me, more like.  He called the house yesterday to check in.”</p><p>Fred nods.  “He called me yesterday to ask after you, and to offer a few choice words about letting you run off without going to hospital. What time should I be by to pick you up tomorrow?”</p><p>Morse looks confused.  “Oh, I’ll take the train.  I couldn’t... I mean you’ve already driven all this way and back twice.  I’ll get there just fine on my own.”</p><p>“I’m sure you would,” Fred says, “But there’s not much on at work right now and there’s no sense in me sitting around at the station all day while you’re trekking around with that hole in your side.  Anyway, I’ll enjoy the drive.  Between you and Jakes I hardly have the chance to get behind the wheel anymore.”</p><p>Morse gives a weak grin.  “Well, my appointment’s at noon, only about fifteen minutes from here.”</p><p>“Then I’ll come round at eleven thirty.  I’ll see you to the doctor and then we can stop somewhere for lunch and a pint before heading back.”</p><p>“Alright,” Morse agrees.  “Thank you,” he says, “For... everything.”</p><p> </p><p>On the drive home, Fred looks over at Win.  </p><p>“Did you know Morse took Joan out the other night?”</p><p>She looks over at him, incredulous.  </p><p>“How did you get that ridiculous idea into your head?”</p><p>“I was there, at the Moonlight.  And so was he.  And so was Joan, as you well know.”</p><p>“Well I was at the grocer the other day the same time as Mr. Ellison from down the street, but that doesn’t mean we were having an illicit rendezvous by the tinned vegetables.  That boy can’t bring himself to call Joan by her first name, let alone ask her out on a secret date.”</p><p>“I heard from someone they were there together.”</p><p>“Heard from who?” She asks with scorn.</p><p>Fred considers his source anew.  Maybe Vince had made the whole thing up just to provoke him.</p><p>“Well,” he says.  “I suppose I might have heard wrong.”</p><p>“I should say you did,” Win says, with a shake of her head and a sigh.  </p><p><em>Police inspector indeed</em>, Win thinks to herself, <em>can’t even get a read on his own bagman.</em> </p><p>Well, she can see the writing on the wall clearly enough.  What that boy needs is some care and kindness, he’s practically starved for it.  And she’s going to see that he gets it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Just a tiny bit more angst, and then some snow covered fluff.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Wednesday</em>
</p><p>Fred’s outside the now familiar house at half eleven the next day, the long drive an old hat by now.  The frigid morning seems somehow even bleaker out here in the countryside, an endless expanse of frozen fields beneath a mercilessly grey sky.  </p><p>Morse emerges from the house, bag in hand.  Thursday’s relieved to see he’s wearing his jacket, and more relieved still to see Morse’s sister give him a quick hug in the doorway.  Not completely alone in the world then.</p><p>He alights as Morse limps towards the car. The lad is still as drained and muted as the winter landscape, no sign of that curiosity kindled spark.</p><p>As Morse reaches the car Thursday gives him a nod of greeting.</p><p>“Sir,” Morse says, with an embarrassed nod in return.</p><p> </p><p>At the doctor’s surgery, Thursday waits in the front room while Morse has his wound seen to. An hour later when Morse emerges, he’s even more ashen than when he went in.  And no wonder, the lad’s well used to gritting his teeth and bearing pain, but blood, well, that’s another matter.</p><p>They head to the Black Lion and find a quiet table.  Thursday fetches two pints and orders them both a steak and kidney pie.  Some red meat should strengthen the boy’s blood.</p><p>Throughout the meal Morse is somehow both too listless and too still.  There’s none of the kinetic energy of deep thought, no furrowed brow of connections made or ear tug of sudden insight.  He keeps his eyes down on the table, his thumb rubbing over his pint glass like a child worrying a cherished blanket after a bad dream.  He downs his pint quickly enough but only shovels the food around with his fork, with barely a bite making it to his mouth.  </p><p>“Win made me promise not to let you drink, unless you soaked it up with a good lunch.  So, you get that down you, spare me a lecture when I get home tonight.”</p><p>Morse sighs, the corner of his mouth barely twitching upwards.</p><p>Thursday fills him in on the details of a minor burglary case solved while Morse was away, hoping the distraction will help.  And indeed, the pie is but a few crumbs by the time he’s finished his story.  There’s a bit more color in his cheeks, at least, though he looks tired enough to have a kip right there at the table.</p><p> </p><p>Settled back in the passenger’s seat of the car, Morse is asleep in minutes.  </p><p>They’re just outside of Oxford when he awakens, stretching and then wincing in pain.  He sits up and looks blindly out of the window at the darkening world.</p><p>Thursday wonders which wound Morse is thinking of.  Even returning to work tomorrow can’t hold much hope of cheering him, now he’ll be stuck on desk duty.  Being chained to a desk is a trial for any copper, but for Morse it will be tantamount to torture.  It certainly won’t put the light back into his eyes. Though maybe nothing will.  </p><p>Thursday pushes the thought away.  The lad’s young.  He’ll heal.</p><p>As they pull up outside Morse’s flat, Thursday turns to look at him.</p><p>“Win was hoping you’d come to ours for dinner tomorrow night, if you’ve nothing on.”</p><p>“I think I’ve imposed on your family enough already.  I really am fine, sir.”</p><p>“No one’s saying you aren’t.  And you needn’t come if you’d rather not.  I understand that a young man might have other things he’d rather do.  But it would mean a lot to Win.”</p><p>“I’d just be a spectre at the feast.”</p><p>“You’ll be nothing of the kind, unless you set out to be.  It’ll be a nice change to have someone else round the table, bound to make Joan and Sam bicker less, for starters.  And if you don’t come, I’ll be getting withering looks over the roast and mashed potato.  It would be a favor to me.”</p><p>“Alright,” Morse agrees with a small smile.</p><p>“Good. You can ride home with me after work tomorrow, if that suits?”</p><p>Morse nods.  “Thank you. And please thank Mrs. Thursday for me.”</p><p>“I’ll be by in the morning for you.”</p><p> </p><p>Morse grabs his bag out of the back and struggles up the stairs, his jaw set tight against the pain.  He leans against the door of his flat as he unlocks it, the stitches in his hip screaming from the climb.  He pushes the door open and the groan of agony he’s been holding in escapes.  Christ, it hurts.</p><p>The small flat is blanketed in darkness.  He sets his bag down and makes his way across the room to switch on the lamp.  When the yellow light falls over the kitchen, the scotch is waiting there like an old friend.  God, it’s a welcome sight.  His fingers wrap around the bottle before he’s even set down his keys.  He grabs a glass and pours himself a soothing measure while collapsing into a chair.  He downs it in a go and pours himself another.</p><p> </p><p>Half an hour later the bottle is empty, but Morse hasn’t moved from the table.  He’s achingly tired, down to his bones, as if not just his hip but his whole body had been painfully stitched together, his very existence a bruise.  </p><p>He’s craved this solitude for days, but now the silence in the flat feels suffocating.  He’s usually at his most comfortable when alone, but now it feels like a trap, too much time for his mind to tread over what’s happened, to map out what might have been.</p><p>He stares longingly at the bottle and wishes it were full enough to keep him company, to marinate his sorrows until morning.</p><p> </p><p>A few minutes later, when there’s a knock at the door, he closes his eyes against it with a sigh.  </p><p>He takes a deep breath, hoists himself up with a grimace and makes his way slowly to the door, opening it just a crack and looking out blearily.</p><p>Strange is standing in the hall, still in uniform.  He gives a friendly nod.  Morse just looks at him blankly.  </p><p>Strange holds up a bottle of scotch.  Morse pulls the door open and steps aside.</p><p>“Hello, matey,” Strange says with a smile.</p><p>Morse gives a nod of greeting.</p><p>Strange walks in, closing the door behind him and looking over at Morse, already slumped into a chair.  He notes that although Morse’s jacket is still on, there’s already an empty bottle and glass in front of him on the table.</p><p>“Just thought I’d pop round and see how you’re getting on,” Strange says, sitting down in the other chair and setting the scotch on the table. “Thought you might fancy a drink and a bit of company.”</p><p>“Grab yourself a glass,” Morse motions to the shelf while he unscrews the cap and pours himself a generous helping.</p><p>Strange fetches a glass and pours a strong measure.  He looks across the table at Morse, wondering if it’s drink, exhaustion or grief making him look so glassy eyed and lost.</p><p>“I’m sorry about your old man.”</p><p>Morse sighs, nods, swallows. He takes a gulp of scotch.  </p><p>“How’s the leg?”</p><p>“It’ll heal.”</p><p>“And hurt like the devil in the meantime,” Strange says.</p><p>Morse just shrugs. </p><p>The conversation isn’t flowing nearly as freely as the scotch, not that it ever does with Morse, and Strange wonders if he should go.</p><p>“Well, don’t want to intrude, you should rest up,” Strange moves to stand.</p><p>Morse looks over at him then, and there’s a tug of desperation in his eyes that makes Strange sit back down.  </p><p>“Stay,” Morse says. “Tell me about your sergeant’s.”</p><p>“What’s there to tell?  I don’t know whether they’ll throw me a parade or demote me when they see my results.”</p><p>“Wouldn’t pin your hopes on a parade, but I should think you’d have done alright.  You studied.”</p><p>“Yeah, well quizzing one another over a pint down the pub is one thing, sitting in that desk like an overgrown schoolboy with the clock ticking away and my hand so sweaty I can barely hold the pencil is another.  Still, I think it went alright.  Praying it did, I’d hate to have to suffer through that again.  Tough break, you missing it.  Isn’t fair.”</p><p>“Life rarely is.”  Morse pours himself another glass.</p><p>They sit together until the bottle is gone.  </p><p>“Well, I’d best be going,” Strange says finally, rising a bit unsteadily to his feet.  “Be sure you set your alarm, don’t want to be late your first day back with the governor picking you up in the morning.”</p><p>Morse nods, closing his eyes, and Strange wonders if he’ll even make it to the bed.</p><p>“Night, matey,” he says, putting a hand on Morse’s shoulder as he moves toward the door. “See you tomorrow.”</p><p>After the door closes behind Strange, Morse grips the table to stand and drags himself across the room.  He fumbles with the alarm, then crumples into bed with his shoes, clothes and jacket still on.  He’s unconscious the moment his head hits the mattress.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Thursday</em>
</p><p>Thursday only has to wait a minute after pulling up outside Morse’s flat in the morning before he comes drifting out the door.  If anything he looks even more tired than the day before, all dark circles and rough edges.</p><p>Throughout the day it’s as if Morse’s ghost has returned to the station, rather than the living, breathing, and often highly irritating lad himself.  Thursday would hardly be surprised if he could see right through him sitting there at the desk, he seems so empty and distant.  And the look Thursday catches on his face as he leaves Morse behind and heads out to work a case with Strange and Jakes haunts him all afternoon.</p><p> </p><p>At the Thursdays’ that evening, Morse gets out of the car, a bit dizzy between the pull of exhaustion and keyed up nerves.  This sort of thing might be easy for some people, enjoyable even, but not for him. He kicks himself for agreeing to come.  He’ll only cast a pall.  </p><p>He’s just so damn awkward, never knowing what to say, oozing unsightly anxiety, while he can see the shoulders of the people around him sagging beneath the weight of carrying the conversation.  But it’s the happy facade of it he most detests, the plastering on of forced smiles and smoothing over of any unpleasantness.  He’s never been able to pretend to be anything other than what he is, and what he is always seems to be wrong somehow.</p><p>He follows Thursday in through the front door, for a moment feeling as stilted and out of place in the hall as he did the first time he ever stepped foot in the house.  </p><p>But then Mrs. Thursday comes to greet them, filling the hall with welcoming words and a delighted smile.  She looks genuinely pleased to see him.  He feels his cheeks flush, and warmth spread through him.  He hadn’t realized how cold and numb he’d felt until now.  </p><p>Thursday fixes them drinks and Morse stands in the doorway of the dining room. He sees that the same spot is set out for him that he occupied once before, during the Gull case, when he’d made such a mortifying spectacle of himself and fallen asleep on the sofa.</p><p>Mrs. Thursday calls up the stairs for Joan and Sam, and they come down, trading teasing insults with one another already. </p><p>“Morse,” Sam says with a friendly nod as he walks past Morse into the dining room and goes to chat with his father.</p><p>Joan walks over to Morse.</p><p>“Miss Thursday,” he says with a shy nod.</p><p>“How are you?”  She asks.  </p><p>There is a candid gentleness in her gaze that he finds so alarmingly disarming that he’s almost in danger of giving an honest answer.</p><p>“Alright,” he manages, with a nod and pursed lips posing as a grin.</p><p>“Glad you came.  You’d think we were having the queen round with all the cooking mum’s done. Your trousers won’t button by the time you leave.”</p><p>For some idiotic reason, this makes him blush more than ever.  He gives a nervous smile and is thankful when Thursday comes over to hand him a glass of whisky.</p><p>Morse hasn’t eaten yet today, and the smells coming from the dishes Mrs. Thursday sets down on the table start his stomach rumbling.</p><p>They gather around the table, eating, talking and laughing.  True, Morse does very little apart from eat and listen.  Still, it’s nothing like he feared it would be.  </p><p>Somehow he doesn’t feel on the outside of things here, yet neither does he feel put on the spot.  He simply feels included, a part of it all, lulled and comforted by the easy conversation and cozy atmosphere.  These are people who genuinely love and care for one another, and who miraculously actually seem to enjoy having him here with them.  Nothing seems forced or strained.  </p><p>He can’t remember the last time he felt so hungry, and by the end of the meal doubts he’s ever been so full.</p><p>After dinner they head into the sitting room and Thursday sets up the card table.  </p><p>“Have you played Racing Demon before?” Sam asks Morse.</p><p>“Can’t say I have.”</p><p>“Lucky dad's an inspector, because you’re about to get murdered,” Sam says with a giddy grin.</p><p>And indeed, it’s a bloodbath, complete with shouts of frustration, panicked flipping of cards, accusations of cheating (between Joan and Sam, of course), and all of them laughing almost to the point of tears.</p><p>Morse is surprised to find that he’s had an inordinate amount of fun.  He’s certainly made a fool of himself, and yet he finds he doesn’t mind at all.</p><p>As he’s getting ready to leave, Mrs. Thursday loads him up with leftovers to take with him, ignoring his half-hearted protests.</p><p>“I don’t know when we’ve had such a fun evening,” she says, handing him containers filled with food. “Would you be able to come again next Thursday?”</p><p>Morse feels he should argue, should say he’s busy or couldn’t impose.  But the truth is the thought of having another night like this to look forward to is too tempting to resist.</p><p>“Yes, if you’re sure.”</p><p>“We’ll all look forward to it,” she says, and gives his arm a squeeze.</p><p> </p><p>Morse opens the door and walks into his darkened flat.  It feels less empty tonight, welcoming in its silence.  He does like living alone, it suits him, and tonight the shadows at the corners of the room no longer seem to hold dark memories lying in wait.  His mind is too full of the evening's warm hearted frivolity to conjure up the familiar phantoms of past losses and missed opportunities. </p><p>Socializing usually leaves him feeling drained, his mind tasked with circling back over his awkward missteps and his annoyance with the human race setting his teeth on edge.  But tonight he just feels pleased.  He's almost startled to realize what a good time he had, and a little embarrassed by how much he's looking forward to next Thursday night.</p><p> </p><p>After dropping Morse at his flat, Thursday drives home.  He comes in the front door, hangs his jacket and hat on the stand, and then walks to the kitchen where Win is washing dishes.  </p><p>He wraps his arms around her waist and softly kisses the side of her neck.</p><p>“What’s that for, then?” She asks with a smile.</p><p>“For always knowing. For being exactly what we all need. For being you.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>A month later</em>
</p><p>Snow falls in soft, twirling flakes as Morse rides beside Thursday in the car.  They’re predicting one of the biggest snows in years tonight, and Morse knows full well he should have said he’d just stay home.  But since his temporary transfer to Whitney, the only thing getting him through the weeks is knowing he’ll be welcomed at the Thursdays’ on Thursday nights.  </p><p>It had been an awkward car ride, that first week he’d started at Whitney and Thursday picked him up for dinner.  The unspoken accusations and apologies spread between them in the stifled space of the Jag. But, somehow, once they were inside the Thursdays’ home, the tension was left by the hall stand.  Things were different there, they were different, not just governor and traded away bagman, but something that couldn’t be put into words. All of them were growing to mean more to him than he could say.</p><p>Tonight they have a stop to make before heading to dinner. Thursday pulls up outside the bank and Joan hurries to the car, her feet slipping a bit on the icy pavement.  Morse gets out and pushes the seat forward so she can climb into the back and she gives him a smile.</p><p>“Feel like I’m living in a snow globe,” she says, brushing flakes from her jacket down onto the seat.</p><p>“Not in the car!” Thursday rebukes, and Morse grins as Joan rolls her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>They pull up outside the house and Thursday parks the car.  Sam is out shoveling snow from the front walk. </p><p>“Hello,” he calls glumly, “At this rate I’ll be out here all night.”</p><p>“We can only hope,” Joan replies, as Morse helps her out of the car.</p><p>Suddenly, a snowball comes hurtling through the air, whizzing past Joan’s side and hitting Morse squarely in the stomach.</p><p>“Oi!” Thursday shouts, “Nice way to greet people when they come to the house.”</p><p>“Sorry!” Sam shouts, just as Joan leans around from behind Morse to hurl a snowball back at him. </p><p>Thursday rolls his eyes and makes towards the house, with Morse following behind him.</p><p>"Where do you think you're going?" Joan says with a laugh.</p><p><em>Thump! </em>A snowball hits Morse right between the shoulders.</p><p>And then the three of them are shrieking and laughing and dodging, their breath puffing in the frosty air, as they ambush one another with an artillery of snowy ammunition. </p><p>If Morse’s hip gives him a warning twinge every now and again, he’s having too much fun to care.</p><p>“Right twits, the lot of you,” Thursday says with a shake of his head that can’t mask his smile, as he leaves them to their game and heads into the house. </p><p> </p><p>Ten minutes later, as they stomp their shoes on the mat before entering the hall, their cheeks are pink and their hands numb with cold.</p><p>Win attacks them at once, fussing and tutting as she helps them remove their coats and drapes them over the radiator to dry.</p><p>“You’ll all catch your death of cold!  Not even a hat or pair of gloves between you!”</p><p>She herds them all up the stairs and into the bathroom, where she runs a sink full of warm water and has them soak their painfully cold hands in it.</p><p>Sam splashes some of the water onto Joan’s shirt. </p><p>“Samuel Frederick Thursday! Don't even think about it!” Win admonishes.</p><p>The three of them burst into giggles.</p><p>“I suppose you’ll think it’s funny when you’re all three in hospital with pneumonia,” Win rebukes, but there’s a twinkle in her eye.</p><p> </p><p>Once their hands have warmed to Win’s approval, they all sit down around the table and fill their bellies with piping hot soup and freshly baked bread.</p><p>“Save room for pudding,” Win warns, as Sam helps himself to his third bowl of soup.</p><p>She heads to the kitchen and brings back a golden crusted apple pie.  </p><p>The smell of sweet cinnamon and butter transports Morse back to birthday mornings in his childhood, when his mother would have a fresh apple pie waiting for him when he woke up, and they'd share conspiratorial smiles as they ate it still warm, straight from the tin for breakfast.</p><p>His heart tightens for a moment, but then he feels a rush of gratitude that nearly brings tears to his eyes.  He can think of those mornings with a smile now, somehow.  That love, that kindness that his mother exuded, no longer lies only in memory.  He’s surrounded by it every Thursday night now.</p><p> </p><p>When they’ve all had a heaping slice of pie, and feel full to bursting, Sam suggests they move to the sitting room for games as usual.</p><p>Morse feels a tug of remorse, but knows he should leave.  He can hear the wind’s insistent howl outside the window, and the snow’s blowing so it’s hard to make out anything but the yellow glow of the streetlamp.</p><p>“I should really be going,” he says reluctantly, “Weather’s only going to get worse.”</p><p>“As if we’d let you go out in that!” Win exclaims.  “You’ll stay over, of course.  Fred can drop you off at yours in the morning.”</p><p>“Oh, I couldn’t, I wouldn’t want to put you out.”</p><p>“What would put me out is worrying after you out in that storm.  I made the bed up in the spare room earlier today, in case.  So it’s settled, you can stay here tonight.”</p><p>“Probably just doesn’t want to stay because he knows I’m bound to wipe the floor with him at cards again,” Joan says with a wicked grin.</p><p>“Ha!” Sam says, “More like eager to avoid you leaning over his shoulder to peek at his cards again.”</p><p>Joan gives Sam a pinch on the arm, and Win shoos them both into the sitting room.</p><p>“Are you sure it’s alright if I stay, sir?” Morse asks Thursday.</p><p>“Planned on it from the moment I picked you up.  Win wasn’t about to let any of us back out in that snow.  Now, I’ve got a game of cards to win.”</p><p>And Morse follows him into the sitting room with a smile.</p><p> </p><p>That night Morse sits on the cozy bed in the spare room upstairs, looking out the window at the snow steadily covering the ground in a thick white blanket.</p><p>The world seems transformed, and not just because of the snow.  He nestles down in the bed, a warmth spreading through him that has nothing to do with the flannel pyjamas Sam’s lent him or the mountain of blankets Win has left on the bed.</p><p>It makes no difference that he’s never lived here and never will. He's found somewhere he wants to be, where he is actually wanted in return. It's quieted a war within him he hadn't even realized he'd been fighting. He can be himself and still be loved. He belongs somewhere. He feels something he hasn’t since he was twelve years old, in that tiny, happy house with his mother. </p><p>He's found somewhere that feels like home. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hopefully the fluff made up for the earlier angst.  I realize that Oxford doesn't actually get much snow, but I live in the Midwest U.S. where we get more than our fair share, so I'm sharing a bit with Oxford here.<br/>Morse's mum making him apple pie is a nod to one of my favorite fics, Spinning on that Dizzy Edge by wherehefoundtheporcupine.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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